


Victory or Death

by IcyPanther



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arena, BAMF Keith (Voltron), Blade of Marmora Keith (Voltron), Fantastic Racism, Feral Behavior, Feral Keith (Voltron), Galra Keith (Voltron), Galran Culture (Voltron), Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Keith (Voltron) Angst, Keith (Voltron) Is Not Okay, Keith (Voltron) Whump, Torture, Tortured Keith (Voltron), Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-03-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 19:00:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29721747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IcyPanther/pseuds/IcyPanther
Summary: The Blades’ belief is absolute: the mission before the man. Keith experiences it firsthand as he’s left behind for dead at a Galra Empire base. But death is not to be his fate. It's something far, far worse.He’s brought to the Arena to fight where he finds it's not the fact he's a Blade that has made him a target of the Empire's hate. It's because he's a Galran halfbreed.  And the only thing a pathetic halfbreed is good for? Entertainment. And he's going to entertain them all as their new, feral champion.Goodbye, Keith. Hello, Bloodlust.
Comments: 116
Kudos: 125





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> **Timeline notes:** later season four  
>  **Warning notes:** violence, dehumanization, starvation, blood, (sort of) cannibalism

“—think it’s still alive.”

The voices filtered in past the dull roaring in Keith’s ears and the blare of the Galra base alarm that had been slowly fading out as he did the same.

At least the fear had grown fainter too, numb realization that he was going to die here and the strangely painful sense of loss that he’d never gotten to say good bye, that he’d never see Shiro again, that he’d been so _stupid_ to ever leave Voltron, taking over.

He didn’t know which he preferred.

He didn’t want to die.

But he was going to and nothing was going to change that. The Blades had left and they weren’t coming back.

The mission before the man. 

At least…

At least it hadn’t been personal.

But now…

Someone was _here._ It was obviously Galrans, but they’d come to this base, had to have come with a ship and if Keith could just…

Just… 

Keith couldn’t hide the groan as what had to be a boot nudged his side and sent the embedded sword through his stomach quivering and he choked as hot blood filled back up inside his mouth. 

He was going to need that sword. His fingers twitched at his sides.

It was going to _hurt._

He had no other choice.

“Would you look at that,” a second voice sounded amused, a throaty chuckle accompanying it and Keith felt a hand land on the latch that dissolved his mask, trying not to wince at the too bright purple lights that now had no filter. “The little Blade is—”

The Galran broke off with a sharp gasp.

“A _mutt!”_

And Keith took the opening.

In a spray of blood he was pulling the blade free of his stomach that the Galra commander had lost his life in doing, leaping to his feet, and— 

And staggering sideways as blood loss and vertigo and _pain_ overwhelmed him, blade sweeping in a lazy, useless arc at the nearest Galran soldier.

A hit to his back had him collapsing and a boot, no longer just a nudge, descended on the exit wound on his back and Keith choked on both blood and a scream. 

The foot ground down, blood bubbling out his back, gushing and warm on his front, and the Galran’s sneer of, “Pathetic,” was barely audible over the crushing weight of failure and the terrifying way his heartbeat was starting to slow, his vision going dark once again.

And this time…

This time he didn’t think he’d be waking up.

“You sure about that?” the other Galran asked, dark amusement coloring his tone.. “This halfbreed took out Commander Zhao _and_ a full two squadrons of sentries _and_ he’s still alive. I think…” he let out a soft laugh that Keith barely heard, eyes fluttering closed against his permission. 

“I think the Arena just found its new champion.”

And Keith realized in that instant there were things far, far more terrifying than death. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one might look familiar; I'm trying to repost it again after deciding yesterday to attempt a return to AO3. Chapter two will likely be along in a couple of days (as this is both a repeat and very short). 
> 
> If you are enjoying the fic I ask that you please take a moment to leave a comment. It doesn't have to be long (although if you're inspired to do so please, feel free, as I love detailed comments (although this chapter that might be a tad hard ;p)). It can be a short and sweet little one-liner, a thank you, an "I enjoyed it ♥ " No matter how long or short, those comments tell me that you were _here_. They tell me that you _read my story_. And they mean everything to me. Thank you very much and I look forward to hearing from you ♥


	2. Two

Keith awoke with a scream as what felt like  _ fire  _ was burning him alive from the inside.

He screamed again as he writhed against it, going nowhere, and faintly realizing he was restrained, cold metal that did nothing against the inferno biting into his wrists and ankles. 

The faint purple lights he could even see through closed eyes and the hazy memories of before answered why that might be.

Galra.

He had been captured.

The mission had— 

His thoughts ground to a halt as another ragged scream was torn out of his throat and  _ pain pain pain  _ was the only thing that made sense. 

It slowly began to lessen and he became aware that while the burning sensation was still strong, still  _ hurt,  _ that…

That it wasn’t just hurting him.

It was  _ healing  _ him.

He could feel his flesh knitting back together, every pull and tug and tear and it  _ hurt  _ but, but…

He forced his eyes to open, to look past the bright lights.

He caught the tell-tale glimpse of a Druid mask. 

And despite the scorching heat he felt only only cold.

Because if the Galra were healing him then…

Then…

_ “I think the Arena just found its new champion.” _

His breath hitched.

They were going to…

They wanted him to...

To…

“Awake, are you?” a crackly voice asked and Keith jolted in the restraints as the Druid’s hand brushed against his cheek.

“Don’t,” it was more a sound than a word. “Don’t touch me.”

He jerked his head to the side and when she didn’t listen, bringing her hand even more across his face and he snapped at it because he had to do  _ something  _ and and the Druid removed it with a rasping chuckle. 

“Quite untrained, aren’t you? To be expected from a halfbreed. Don’t you worry though,” the hand descended in his hair, tightening cruelly. “That’s what they’re looking forward to.”

The Arena.

She had to be talking about the Arena.

Keith bared his teeth at her and she only chuckled again.

“I saved your life, pup,” she told him and his body  _ screamed  _ as she pushed her hand on his stomach where the blade had once been and it took all he had to turn the physical scream into a choked inhale.

He would not give her the satisfaction, although he wondered if maybe he still actually had.

He hated that he couldn’t see her face beneath the mask, only a glow of yellow eyes through the provided slits. 

People that hid behind masks be they tangible or not...

They were always the most dangerous.

“And I will do so again,” the Druid continued. “You cannot escape death, little Blade. Not from me.”

Keith tried to hide his confusion at the implication. 

He thought they were throwing him to the Arena, but this sounded like…

Like an interrogation.

His eyes narrowed. 

“I won’t tell you anything.”

And the Druid  _ laughed.  _

It made his hair stand straight up.

“You misunderstand. We know you know nothing, not of real value. Your leader,” and he could hear her sneer, “is quite good at that, is he not? Sacrificing his pawns who die without ever knowing what they are dying for.”

Keith tried not to react even though…

Even though, as much as he hated to admit it… she was right.

Kolivan wasn’t a bad person. But he did use people. That’s what the Blade of Marmora was. A giant group of martyrs who would put the mission above their own safety, above each other. You fell behind, you were left behind.

He’d just found that out the hard way.

And he, a former Paladin of Voltron, was just as disposable as the rest of them.

His earlier role had meant nothing to Kolivan and there was almost a comfort in that to Keith; to just be another soldier without anything expected of him. He hadn’t liked being the leader for Voltron, hadn’t like the responsibility (had been afraid of it, of being the screw-up he’d always been told he was and if he messed up this time it was people’s  _ lives)  _ so he’d welcomed the anonymity, the way to be just another mask. 

But…

But he’d  _ hated  _ how they treated one another, like their lives meant  _ nothing,  _ and the few times he’d walked around without his mask because as much as he liked being alone he felt so  _ alone  _ on the Marmora base and even eye contact would be better than nothing, he had felt their judgement and in some cases their disgust.

Halfbreeds weren’t welcome anywhere, it seemed. 

It wasn’t anything he’d had control over and for a group that prided themselves on knowledge…

He always felt that they were being stupid. There were plenty of other reasons he knew people tended not to like him, but at least those were because of his actions, his personality, or at least their perceptions and biases of it, of the troublemaking foster kid. 

Not because of his blood.

Allura had at least had a reason to hate that part of him and even she had come around.

But the rest of the Galra?

Keith had experienced a lot in the system but he’d never experienced racism.

And it didn’t seem to be limited to just the Blade. 

He wondered how many of them had silently called him ‘mutt’ and ‘halfbreed’ as the Empire soldiers had.

In the end it didn’t matter. 

All it did was remind him of how  _ stupid  _ he was, how  _ reckless,  _ and how he  _ never  _ should have left Voltron. He knew there was a numbers issue, he knew that despite Shiro saying he wanted Keith to be leader that  _ Shiro  _ still wanted that role and it had caused a friction in them that Keith had never wanted and he’d left because staying only seemed to be making it worse, but he shouldn’t have done that. He’d run away once from Shiro and Shiro had come after him before he made the biggest mistake of his life.

But Shiro didn’t come after him this time.

And Keith had taken that as his answer.

But even if he’d had to come crawling back, had to sit on the sidelines, had to deal with Lance’s taunts (but would he, now? He didn’t think so, so why… why had he even made that one of his reasons?), feeling like a screw-up because he couldn’t do the right thing anywhere, at least he’d have been with them. With a real team.

With, with people he had been actually starting to call friends.

But he’d stayed with the Blade, going on mission after mission in which he didn’t know the  _ why  _ because that wasn’t important, just the  _ what,  _ and done what he could to not leave people behind, to not forget that there were people under the masks, but…

But he’d failed Regris.

And now he’d failed himself. 

And no one would come for him. Even if Kolivan told Voltron — and he, would, right? — he’d tell them Keith had been killed on mission because as the Druid had just painfully pointed out there was no need to interrogate Blade members, not one left behind to die and telling the Empire that they knew nothing, and so there was no reason for Keith to have been kept alive.

Except he  _ had.  _

And he should have been glad, should have made them regret ever thinking they were the ones in control.

But…

But he wasn’t going to a prison cell, wasn’t even going to be tortured in some interrogation room.

He was going to the Arena.

The Arena, that even months after escaping from, Shiro never mentioned, never talked about, and any reference to it had him flinching even if he tried to hide it.

Shiro was the strongest person Keith had ever known.

And even he couldn’t escape those horrors. He hadn’t even been able to escape, a sympathetic Blade member stepping in and doing so and even that had been against orders.

Keith thought he would have liked Ulaz.

To his knowledge there were no Blade members undercover in Arena operations now and even if there were…

The mission before the man. They wouldn’t blow their cover for him.

To them he was just another faceless Blade.

And…

And to the Galra…

To the Galra he had to remain that way. 

If they found out he was a former Paladin of Voltron he had no doubt he would be brought to an interrogation room and while Keith didn’t think he was weak he knew what the Druids were capable of, knew the limits of the human body, knew that as much as he would never willingly do so that he could say something.

And he would die before he betrayed Voltron. 

And that meant going to the Arena. 

Where…

“You do not disagree,” the Druid said quietly and Keith barely refrained from startling as he was pulled from his thoughts. She chuckled, amused. “You are smart for a Blade. It makes me wonder how you will indeed fare. I suppose,” and he could sense he smile, “we are about to find out.”

Keith’s heart froze.

She…

She couldn’t mean right now.

That was…

“Oh, did I not mention?” Her hand brushed his cheek and Keith didn’t even try to pull away. “My name is Maycath. I am the Arena’s head Druid and healer for competitors of worth. I make the determination of when a prisoner can go back into the ring. 

“And your time, little Blade,” her mask bent down to brush against his ear, “begins now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to all those who left a comment last chapter, it meant a lot ♥ That was definitely just the beginning and this story is so so so full of Keith whump and angst (plus a ton of my headcanons for Galrans) and I'm excited to share it :) If you are enjoying the fic I would love to hear from you in the comments below. It doesn't have to be long (although if you're inspired to do so please, feel free, as I love detailed comments). It can be a short and sweet little one-liner, a thank you, an "I enjoyed it ♥ " No matter how long or short, those comments tell me that you were _here_. They tell me that you _read my story_. And they mean so so much. Thank you ♥


	3. Three

The noise was overpowering.

Keith tried not to flinch as it physically assaulted him — cheers and jeers and screams and boos — and the bright overhead lights _hurt_ his eyes but even they were a better sight than the blood-stained, churned up sand spreading out before him.

The Arena.

He’d been shoved out into it — unceremoniously dragged off Maycath’s operating table and his body had _screamed_ at him as while she may have healed him her methods were _nothing_ like the Altean’s cryo-pods and his flesh and insides were still raw and tender and every step felt like someone was driving a sword back into him and with his hands tethered with energy cuffs in front of him she’d pulled one of those purple shirts — _slave_ shirts — overtop his bare chest and left him to affix the sleeves when the cuffs disengaged after he was propelled from the room, through a giant metal door and then forcibly escorted by a Galran soldier through a waiting room, if waiting rooms had cages and blood splattered dirt floors and others in clothes just like him, and then into the Arena, the door thudding behind him and Keith too proud to turn around and run for it anyway.

The cuffs had disengaged and he’d painfully finished pulling the shirt on, catching the barest glimpse of his own flesh, large, puckered red scar just above his belly button, before the shirt nearly covered it. 

If he survived he assumed they’d give him the rest of the uniform. No use wasting it on a dead person after all. 

And given the fact they hadn’t given him a weapon, even a chance to defend himself when he was injured and slow and dizzy still from blood loss and shock and pain, he had a feeling that’s how he was going to end up.

Although…

Although why save him, why do all that, just to watch him be massacred?

Something wasn’t right.

He didn’t know what it was. 

The announcer was speaking now but down here the words were magnified, were too loud to hear clearly, although he caught one word and the heavy boos that followed it.

Blade.

They were introducing him as a Blade of Marmora.

And then those boos turned even louder, jeers and hollers, and Keith had a feeling he knew what had just been said even if he hadn’t caught it.

Halfbreed. 

It was obvious, given the fact he wasn’t even remotely purple, but the sheer _disgust_ that they felt towards him because of that…

Keith raised his chin.

Fuck them.

He wasn’t ashamed of his heritage. He didn’t know much — anything, no matter how hard he’d tried and it was the biggest reason he’d convinced himself to stay with the Blade, because someone had to have known her, someone had to know _something_ — about his mother but he knew Pop had loved her and she’d been a Blade and that was enough, for now, to tell him what he needed, that his mom was a _good_ person and his pop was the best so…

So he had nothing to be ashamed of.

Cruel foster families and bullies had never made him ashamed to be Keith Kogane, he wasn’t about to let a bunch of racist Galrans do so either. 

And if he wanted to make it out of here, wanted to _survive_ because if there was one thing he did well it was that, then he had to _focus._

He closed his eyes and took in a shuddering breath.

Focus.

Calm. 

Everything outside the Arena walls was nothing but a distraction. They were bullies, they were social workers who didn’t care, they were foster parents who saw him as both a paycheck and a punching bag, they were all those who had told him he’d never amount to anything.

They meant nothing.

Focus.

Breathe.

He opened his eyes.

And while nothing had changed, his stomach still throbbing and head aching and the crowed still roaring, he felt steadier.

He felt in control.

And, and whatever happened next…

He would go out there with his head high.

He stepped away from his door and began to make for what was he was determining was the center of the ring given the marks on the wall and a smudged colored line in the sand.

He did his best to ignore the other colored sand in splotches.

As he drew nearer an identical door to his across the way was opening and Keith’s nails dug into his palms.

His opponent.

He didn’t know what to hope for. 

He didn’t… he didn’t want to kill anyone here. Not like this. And, and if it was a slave like himself, someone scared and weak and helpless…

So it was almost a relief to see that while the alien coming out was clothed in slave garb like himself he wasn’t cowering, wasn’t shuffling. Instead he was covered in scars, _he_ had a sword in hand and Keith felt a sharp pang of unfair that he squashed becaused when had life ever been for him?, and was waving his arms up and down and the crowd was… was _cheering_ him.

This was a fan favorite.

Keith let out another breath.

He had to remember, the Galra knew him as a Blade. Had he been a Paladin he could easily picture them forcing him to fight a weaker opponent, someone who was no match. But the Blades, in their own way, were ruthless, were cutthroat.

They were Galran.

And Galrans, _all_ Galrans, believed very firmly in one thing.

Victory or death.

And they wanted to see if this Blade, this _halfbreed,_ had what it took to claim victory. 

But without, without _anything,_ to fight with, to defend with…

How we he supposed to do that?

What even were the rules here? Was it a fight to surrender? Or… or was it to the death?

He answered that question himself. 

Something icy shivered down his spine.

Was this how Shiro had felt?

This, this muted _panic_ that it was kill or be killed? 

Keith wasn’t a stranger to killing. He did it when it was required and he aimed to make them as painless as possible. He’d been in more than his share of fights, of brawls, of stacked-odds practically since he’d entered the foster system.

Shiro hadn’t.

Shiro always sought a peaceful outcome, to use words, to use empathy, to not succumb to violence.

And yet here, he’d…

He’d had to…

He watched as the alien crossed the sand towards the center as well, waving and grinning and roaring, beating his swords — he had _two_ swords and what the fuck — against one another with a shower of sparks and riling up the crowd even more.

Had Shiro ever looked like _that?_

Had being Champion made him into…

Into someone like that?

Would it change Keith?

 _How_ was he going to get out of here?

He forced himself to take a deep inhale.

Focus.

One thing at a time.

Surviving this fight was step one. 

Everything else came after. 

The alien was only a few yards away now and Keith was slowly becoming aware of how _big_ he was, at least two feet taller than Shiro and green skin practically rippling with muscles beneath his slave uniform.

A uniform that tellingly had not a single hole or stain.

A favorite indeed. 

“You small,” the alien observed with a smirk, lips pulling back to reveal at least two rows of very sharp looking teeth. “You think fight me, Blade Slasher?”

Keith tried very hard not to gape.

Blade… Slasher?

That was his _name?_

“I Champion now,” Blade Slasher pointed one of his swords at Keith’s face and he didn’t so much as flinch.

It was a nice blade though.

He’d need to get a hold of one.

Blade Slasher let out a deep chortle. “Oh, small mutt not afraid. Good. No fun other way.” 

No fun, huh?

“It won’t be any fun if I don’t have a sword,” Keith pointed out. 

The alien threw back his head and _laughed._ “Small mutt funny,” he gasped out. “Must earn weapons in fight. But no worry. I make quick.”

Keith filed that away.

Weapons were earned here, perhaps taken from downed opponents. 

And this alien had regular swords, nothing special, nothing like what they had given their previous Champion if Shiro's prosthetic arm was to go by.

Keith could use that.

He knew how deep words could cut.

He just…

Never thought he’d be the one saying them.

Apparently those bullies had been good for something after all.

He made himself smirk.

The alien frowned. “What funny?”

“You,” Keith said. “The fact that _you_ think you’re the Champion.”

The Champion he’d heard the Galra soldiers think _he_ could be.

He shoved the shudder and memory aside.

“I Champion,” Blade Slasher growled, no longer looking amused.

“No you’re not,” Keith countered. “I’ve met Champion. I’ve _fought_ him,” he leaned forward. “And next to him? You look like _nothing.”_

The alien blinked.

And then Keith was ducking, feeling the sword pass not even an inch above his head, as Blade Slasher roared, the audience screamed, a giant buzzer blared in reaction and apparently the fight had begun. 

Keith was forced to go on the defensive as he knew he’d have to given both his lack of weapon and the size disadvantage. But he used that time to analyze Blade Slasher. 

Focus.

He saw how the alien was slower with his strikes on the right side, how he always brought the blades to chest level to protect there and his head, where Keith measured up to him on his body and where a strike would be most likely to land if he came in close, how while he was fast Keith was _faster_ and it took him almost an extra second to change direction when Keith pivoted as he ducked and wove, doing all he could to convince himself that he wasn’t in pain, that he wasn’t dizzy, and that he could do this.

Mind over matter. He’d done it before, he could do it now.

And as Keith had hoped Blade Slasher grew angrier and angrier as Keith continued to dodge, faking a yawn with one hand, and doing his best to taunt him even as the words didn’t sound like they were coming from him.

_“Were you aiming for me?”_

_“Blade Slasher? More like Blade Misser.”_

_“Are you even trying?”_

Keith had never liked fighting contrary to popular belief, but he hated the verbal attacks, the ones that tried to make him feel small, to feel _scared,_ the most. But he’d seen firsthand too how those things would make him angry, would make him _reckless,_ and he’d throw himself into fights in a blind rage against boys double his size.

Anger made people reckless.

Anger made them lose focus.

And if he wanted even a chance at winning he needed his opponent to lose focus.

And it was working.

The strikes were becoming wilder, wider, and leaving Black Slasher’s head open more and more.

Keith could also feel his own breaths becoming labored, his vision starting to darken on the edges, and if he didn’t take a chance now he wasn’t sure he’d be alive to do so later. 

On his next pivot he bent low, scooping up a handful of sand, and he flung it high as he turned around, right where the alien’s two large eyes were.

Blade Slasher failed to block and he stumbled backwards with a shout, temporarily blinded.

Keith charged. 

He ducked beneath the large arms, delivered a gut punch with his elbow to unbalance the larger alien further and grabbed the weaker right arm, hands locking ironclad about the wrist and _squeezed_ with all that he had, blunted nails digging into green flesh.

He only clung tighter as he felt the other blade plunge through his back and out his front, a near reverse of what the Galran commander had already tried, choking on the gasp and fighting against the sudden _pain_ because he’d done it a few hours before, he could do it again. 

The Galra said they wanted to keep him alive?

Here was their chance to prove it. And if they didn’t…

He didn’t let himself think on it. 

Blood coated his tongue.

He didn’t let go of Blade Slasher’s wrist, putting everything he had into holding tight, in making the shaking hand release the blade.

And Blade Slasher lost his grip.

Keith caught the sword mid-fall, turned it around and _stabbed_ it backwards and up over his shoulder.

If the scream hadn’t told him he’d struck flesh the hot splatter of blood all over the back of his neck did.

So too did the suddenly slack feeling on the sword through his chest that as Keith had hoped was nearly through his lower ribcage and not his heart due to where an alien of Blade Slasher’s size was most likely to strike on someone of Keith’s height, and he stumbled forward, adding bright red blood to the dirty sand.

But he had a sword.

 _Two_ swords, even if one was currently inside him.

His opponent had none.

Mission accomplished.

He readjusted his hold on the one in his hand, having to make it a two-handed grip as his arms were beginning to shake, and he pointed it at Blade Slasher, who was holding his arm where bright yellow blood was pouring from.

“Surrender,” Keith said, voice steadier than he felt.

He had proven his point.

He had survived.

And he refused to play the game any longer. He knew he’d likely have to kill here if he wanted to survive, knew it was inevitable, but that did not mean he was going to just senselessly commit the act as the Galra wanted. This might be the Arena, the universe’s gladiator ring, but he was not some mindless beast or savage.

There could still be honor in a fight, even a place like this.

Even though his command had been quiet the crowd somehow seemed to hear it if the tidal wave of boos meant anything.

Blade Slasher’s expression narrowed.

“No surrender,” he snarled. “You small. Weak. I crush.”

And it was his turn to charge. 

And Keith’s turn to have wide eyes as a _third blade_ was pulled from a hidden holster beneath his shirt.

The crowd roared their approval.

Keith grit his teeth, vision wavering. 

He couldn’t afford quick movements, not with the sword quivering inside of him.

There was only one option to take, to end this quickly.

He had given warning, he had shown mercy.

And now he had no other choice if he wanted to survive.

“Victory!” Blade Slasher howled, sword thrust forward.

“Or death,” Keith whispered, barely audible to himself.

He sidestepped the blade, felt it tear through the purple shirt, a whisper on his skin… and thrust his own blade up.

It went straight through the alien’s chin and out the top of his head in a giant spurt of yellow ichor.

The crowd went nearly silent, so loud it hurt after their roars and cheers.

Keith stumbled backwards, letting his hand slide off the hilt, more black spots crowding in now.

He didn’t let himself fall.

They would not see him weak.

The silence was giving way to whispers now, building and building and this time Keith could hear the announcement, the almost incredulous voice declaring ‘the halfbreed’ the winner and more and more voices were sounding now, angry and violent.

Keith turned his back on all of it.

He walked as evenly as he could, eyes laser focused on the door that he’d come out of.

Blood poured down his front and back, little plops of crimson trailing behind him.

The doors slowly began to open and Keith continued his resolute walk to them, as though he’d known this entire time they would do so and they closed behind him with a _thud_ that cut off the roaring, violent crowd with a suddenness that made him dizzier than the noise.

There were three Galran soldiers standing to meet him in the sort of waiting room of cages.

And Maycath.

It was she who stepped forward, waving a hand and Keith tried not to groan as his hands snapped together at the wrist as the movement jolted the sword, instead lifting his eyes to meet the yellow orbs behind the mask and raised his chin.

He didn’t know what they’d wanted from him out there but he’d won, and he’d done it as much as he could on his own terms. He might have had to use a few dirty tricks to accomplish what he’d wanted, but when the end came he fought with honor and no matter who they threw at him, no matter what game they were playing, he would not let them take that from him.

Maycath gave a quiet hum and slowly circled around behind him.

Keith fought not to turn to follow.

It was an intimidation tactic he was more than familiar with and unlike the small, scared foster kid of before he refused now to be scared.

Her hand lighted on the hilt at his back and he sucked in a harsh breath as the sword shifted inside of him, black spots crowding in.

He felt her mask brush against his neck, felt it lift, and what could only be lips pressed behind the shell of his ear.

He shivered at the sudden sensation of _wrong,_ even moreso than her hold on the sword.

He felt her breath.

And then her whisper. 

“Disappointing.”

Keith didn’t know what that meant. 

He didn’t have a chance to figure it out as he felt her hand tighten on the hilt, knew what was about to happen.

And Keith lost himself to the blackness with a spray of red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we get a little taste of how things work in the arena, coupled nicely with angsty Keith history and a little Keith whump ♥ If you're enjoying the story it would mean a lot to hear from you. I'm seeing a good chunk of people in the bookmarks and kudos but not in the comments and that's quite sad :( It only takes a moment to pop in with a favorite line or a thank you or a little detail and give a little love back to the author via a comment. It's been a week of crying on my lunch break (and it's only Wednesday >>) if that gives you any indication on how I'm doing these days, so if you can spare a moment it would mean a lot to hear from you. Thanks :) (edit: or not xD And I can instead be reminded of why I was leaving AO3 in the first place. Disheartened goes well as a side dish for depression ;p)


	4. Four

The first thing Keith was aware of was how _quiet_ it was, the only audible sound his own breaths.

The second was the pain.

He bit down hard on his lip to contain the whimper even as he instinctively curled around where the worst pain was coming from to protect it from further harm. 

Memories slowly percolated in as he focused on his breathing, on not making a sound, and Keith slowly, slowly, brought a hand up to prod at his chest.

The rough linen of bandages greeted him and a new flare of pain that had him sucking in a harsher breath. 

He made himself continue his examination. The bandages weren’t damp which meant he wasn’t bleeding and while everything _hurt_ he could tell it was better than before which meant the Druid had healed him.

Even though…

_“Disappointing.”_

What had that meant? 

The only thing he could think of was his showing in the Arena. He’d won, claimed the victory the Galra Empire literally killed others for (that _he’d_ killed someone for), but…

But that wasn’t what they wanted?

He pushed it to the side for now and focused instead on his current situation. 

He was alone in a cell and not one in the Arena waiting room; this one was all solid metal walls and ceilings with a purple light scone above the no-handle doorway with a flap towards the bottom that Keith knew was far more high-tech than it looked and a small circular glint above that with what he knew without a doubt had to be a camera.

Nothing else.

Keith slowly sat up, trying not to shiver as it would only jar still very tender wounds, and wrapped bare arms about his bandaged torso. The room wasn’t overly cold or warm but he could feel even from that small movement he was still suffering the effects of blood loss and he wouldn’t be remiss to a blanket.

He knew he wouldn’t be getting one.

He’d apparently been stripped out of his Marmora pants and boots while he was unconscious and they’d been replaced with a thinner, less protective pair of both. A quick peek beneath the waistband at least revealed they’d left his briefs in place. 

But no shirt, not even the ugly purple half-one, and he bit his lip as his body tried to shiver again at the reminder. 

He lifted his chin up, angling a glare at the camera. 

This was nothing. He’d gone through life with far, far less than even this and the Galra had already showed their biggest weakness to him:

They wanted to keep him alive.

He didn’t know the game they were playing but for now his life was valuable enough to save. They wanted him fit enough to fight in the Arena. 

And so whatever they threw at him…

He was ready.

xxx

Nearly four hours since he woke up there hadn’t been a single peep from the Galra or the Druid.

Keith tried not to let it bother him.

If they thought isolation was going to bother him then they’d thought wrong. He was used to being ignored, to being locked away in rooms and forgotten, sometimes even for days, and suddenly always remembered just when the social worker was coming to visit. 

He was thirsty, definitely light-headed, but he didn’t dare try to sleep to alleviate those symptoms because he would not be caught with his guard down.

Not until he had some sort of answer.

So he waited.

He wasn’t entirely uncomfortable, sitting cross legged and back against the wall across from the door, and the metal was cool but it felt nice and numbed some of the pain from his now two wounds that had gone through both sides of him, and he focused on counting his breaths and trying to puzzle over the _why._

He had few clues to go off of but that at least narrowed down his scope. And what he’d gotten so far that was of interest was that not only was he a Blade but a half-Galran and the disgust for his heritage ran deep.

And…

“ _Quite untrained, aren’t you? That’s what they’re looking forward to.”_

Maycath’s words hadn’t meant much to him then but they were coming back now with a different perspective.

Untrained.

Pup, she had called him. 

Disappointing, she had called his fight.

A shiver ran down his spine.

They hadn’t wanted a fight like that.

They’d wanted a _bloodbath._

They’d sent him out there, injured and defenseless, to see not if he could outsmart his opponent as he had but…

But to see if he’d become so desperate, so cornered that he’d…

That he’d go _berserk._

It made sick sense. He knew that Galrans were wired differently, that the urge to fight _sang_ through their veins. It explained a lot about him, honestly, and learning that his mom had been Galran, that that same, violent, passionate blood, was a part of him…

Victory or death wasn’t just a mantra it was a _belief_ and for Galrans, who lived to fight, to prove themselves superior. Keith could _feel_ it every time he held the activated luxite blade, a sort of humming through his body that both comforted and scared him because it was so _powerful_ and there was a thirst, a hunger, for more, always more.

It wasn’t just the sword.

He’d seen the other Blades fight, seen them turn sparring matches into something more, blood and fur and skin flying, as they went in for the kill and they were only stopped when others interfered. Keith loved a good fight, loved being able to prove himself, but…

But not like that.

It was called ‘berserk’, Regis had quietly explained to him when Keith had finally summoned up the courage to ask because most openly sneered or scoffed at his lack of knowledge over his Galran heritage even though there was no possible way for him to know _anything_ about it, but Regris had always been kinder, more patient, than most Galrans he’d met.

God, he missed Regris.

Keith swallowed past the sudden lump in his throat and replayed that quiet conversation as best he could.

Berserk was when a Galran gave into their more primal side where strength and victory reigned over all else. It gave them a goal, a focus, and one they would see through to their last breath.

Victory or death.

It made a lot more sense now. 

Keith, as a half-blood, and Regris had not said it unkindly, may be more immune to it than fullblooded Galrans but even he could experience it if the situation pushed enough, if he became desperate or scared enough. 

Keith had a sick feeling he’d already experienced it.

There were times when he was younger that he couldn’t explain a fight, couldn’t explain why he had literal blood on his knuckles, couldn’t remember why he was coming to standing above the crumpled form of an abusive foster sibling. He didn’t remember doing it, he’d plead, he hadn’t meant to. 

They called him a liar.

They…

They had been right.

Keith had always been the small kid in the foster system, had always been the easy target, but he’d never made it easy. He fought back.

And sometimes…

Sometimes, apparently…

He’d gone beserk.

He didn’t remember it.

That was normal Regris had said, voice calm and even, as Keith had sat there, shaking and trying not to vomit and realizing how messed up he really was, as going berserk clouded one’s rational thought and as such he shouldn’t remember it.

But… and a clawed hand had tentatively landed on Keith’s shoulder, it spoke to how _strong_ that Keith was that he’d pulled himself back all on his own before he’d ever made a final kill, especially as he’d been completely untrained. Many, and Regris had inclined his head towards the training room, could not claim such. 

Keith was just horrified that he could have killed someone — killed another _kid_ — and he wouldn’t have remembered it at all. 

Becoming stronger helped, Regis explained. And Keith… Keith was strong. There was quiet pride in his voice and Keith had ducked his head. The stronger one was, both mentally and physically, the easier it was to resist the call. But if he would like, there were meditative techniques, Regris offered, that could help. 

Keith had gratefully accepted.

Regris had died the next day. 

Keith let out a breath.

He knew. He knew what they wanted. And as Pidge liked to say, knowledge was power. It told him that they’d be trying to do things to make him revert, to become some, some _animal._

He also knew he was strong. He’d survived so much already.

He could survive this.

He would beat them at their own game.

And somehow, some way, he was going to escape.

His hands tightened into fists. 

Victory or death. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are enjoying the fic it would mean a lot to hear from you in the comments. I adore detailed comments but even a short and sweet thank you or a little note means a lot. Thank you ♥


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